by Blake Snyder
It's magic.
To think I almost missed out.
Teaching was not on my mind when I wrote Save the Cat! I said as much in its Introduction. Dude, I have stuff to do, was my attitude. Here's “The Last Book on Screenwriting You'll Ever Need.” Good luck! And write if you get work!
Well, be careful what you don't wish for, too.
The guy who saw the promise in me, the brave soul who took a chance on a young up-and-comer, was David Lyman. I met David in Chicago during one of my early book signings and learned what an inspirational figure he is. A photographer, filmmaker, producer, and businessman, David is primarily a true “creative,” who's inspired students for over 20 years at his Rockport Photographic Workshops in Maine. David asked me upon our first meeting if I'd be interested in coming to Rockport to conduct a summer class.
And never one to shrink from a challenge, I said: “Yes!”
The fear set in immediately.
On the first day of our five-day course, after my very first lecture about how the “idea” had to grab us, one student raised his hand. Oh good, I thought, a question.
“That's fine for Hollywood,” the writer began, with a slight look of distaste, “but what about good movies?”
At which point I wondered what I'd gotten myself into.
Would you believe it if I told you that by the end of the week, he was one of my most enthusiastic supporters? And the same could be said of everyone in the class. Talk about transformation! That was the week I saw writers stretch and grow… and the week I became a teacher.
I wish for you that special day when you discover the “flow,” when you look up and it's 9:00 a.m. and what seems like minutes later it's 3:00 in the afternoon. That's what happened to me. Who knew I'd love helping writers find their voices? And I've been happily doing so ever since.
But because I love story, and love trouble, the class continues to be about that other moment… the moment we disagree! You see it one way. I see it another. And you're going to have to prove your point because this is only the beginning of the pushback.
And at least I'm smiling when I say: “Try again!”
RESISTANCE IS FERTILE!
As I kept getting invited to work with writers, there was no guarantee I could continue to be effective, or that the principles of Save the Cat! that worked so well for my first group, and for thousands of readers individually, could be put into play everywhere.
The results have been nothing short of breathtaking!
What has developed are two separate weekend workshops for small groups of writers that do something amazing: take you from movie idea to a fully fleshed-out 40 scene outline that's ready to write.
Yet whether you attend class or not, the challenge is always the same: Can a writer hear “criticism” and respond?
I always go into these workshops knowing there will be many moments that qualify as a “throwdown.” Like in my first Cat! group, there will come a time when one of us has to give up our old ideas and abandon everything we think we know about a story. You pitch an idea, or work out the 15 beats of your movie and think you have it down, and I'm here to say you might not. Not yet! I always want to shout:
Resistance is futile!
But I hold back.
It's a little too Revenge of the Sith.
Thank heaven for the group! If it were just me working one-on-one with you in that room, you might not believe me when I tell you your pitch, plot point, or theme doesn't work. There have been many times when I've stared at a writer and can tell by his silence he's digging in. But when others who are listening share my lack of enthusiasm, when “crickets” are heard, it soon begins to dawn on the writer, too. You can cling to a bad idea; you can re-pitch it six different ways, or go get a bigger hammer in hopes of pounding your story into place. But sooner or later it's clear you either have to re-think it… or let it go.
Our discussion of concept, logline, and poster that begins each class soon segues into hearing actual pitches — and the most common experience is the following:
A writer, beaming brightly, lets loose with “the one.” It's why she came in; it's the idea that's sure-fire! And of course when she pitches it out, the awful silence tells all. Second pitch: same result. And that's when the panic sets in. It isn't until we prod the writer to tell us her third idea that's “nothing,” the one she thought up on the way to class, that we hit pay dirt. This is what happened when Ben Frahm pitched Dr. Sensitive (a success story we'll be discussing in detail later in this book) or my favorite example, when a writer hit the wall in class, then out of desperation said: “I have this other thing, it's ‘ Private Benjamin joins the police’ and it's called L.A.P.Diva.”
She even had a poster line she'd been kicking around:
“You have the right to remain gorgeous!”
The booming cheers that erupted are what I remember.
AND FROM THIS LITTLE ACORN…
You can spend weeks and months massaging your logline, and should, but in our classroom we go right to the next step. And it starts with the 15 beats of the Blake Snyder Beat Sheet (the BS2), the one-page document you can print off our website that has become the go-to tool for so many.
By now, this handy template may be known to you. Since penning Save the Cat! I've even met writers I worked with years ago who still have a yellowed copy hanging on their wall or laminated and sitting in a top desk drawer.
If you don't know the Beat Sheet, don't worry. It's an intuitive and easy tool — and that's the point. It's the next step to start fleshing out your idea.
It looks like this:
THE BLAKE SNYDER BEAT SHEET
PROJECT TITLE:
GENRE:
DATE:
1. Opening Image (1):
2. Theme Stated (5):
3. Set-Up (1-10):
4. Catalyst (12):
5. Debate (12-25):
6. Break into Two (25):
7. B Story (30):
8. Fun and Games (30-55):
9. Midpoint (55):
10. Bad Guys Close In (55-75):
11. All Is Lost (75):
12. Dark Night of the Soul (75-85):
13. Break into Three (85):
14. Finale (85-110):
15. Final Image (110):
As I talk about the BS2 in class, and how each beat corresponds to a suggested page where it appears in an average, 110-page script, each writer is already filling in theirs, and their newly vetted concept begins to bloom. And so can yours.
What is the Opening Image and the Final Image, the “Before” and “After” that shows change in their story? What are the Midpoint and the Breaks into Act Two and Act Three? What is the “Fun and Games,” the “poster” of the movie, the place where the “set-pieces” go because it's where we find the “promise of the premise”? In class — and in this chapter — I get to point out new facets of the BS2 that are only mentioned in my books.
One story element that doesn't appear on the Beat Sheet is called Stasis = Death, which can be found between Set-Up and Catalyst and is part of a larger conversation about “change.” Stasis means “things staying the same.” Death means “death.” And it's the point in the story where we reveal that this hero's life isn't all it's cracked up to be — and may stay that way. After we've figured out the Set-Up and introduced all the characters in the A Story in the first 10 pages — or 10 minutes — of a movie, there is often this “sigh moment” for the hero, where we see that if things “stay the same,” our poor protag is doomed.
You can see this beat in Galaxy Quest; it's the part where a relatively happy Tim Allen, star of a faux Star Trek series, overhears kids at a Comic-Con belittle and deride him. Tim snaps at fans in the next scene, and his fellow cast members worry for their “leader.” But its “S=D” purpose is to show the need for change is over-whelming — and will be worth the pain of the adventure. And, of course, the most famous Stasis = Death moment is in Star Wars when Luke Skywalker looks at two setti
ng suns on his home planet, and we know something's gotta give — not “next season,” but now! And it sets up the Catalyst, moments later, as Luke is cleaning droids (just another day on Tatooine) when a loose screw results in a holographic Princess's plea: “Help me, Obi-Wan Kenobi. You're my only hope.”
Another great Beat Sheet supercharger, and one that my class in Seattle insisted I put into this book, comes directly from this Catalyst discussion: the always-handy Double Bump. This doesn't have to be in every story, but often twin Catalysts are required to kick a stubborn tale into motion. In Star Wars, it's not enough for Luke to be summoned by a Princess; he'll need one more push that comes when he finds his aunt and uncle dead. It's the second “bump” at the end of Act One that kicks him into Two.
The Double Bump is one of many tricks to put the pieces of a story into place that comes directly from the classroom. And it points out how, when we get good at “beating it out,” story problems get solved faster.
THE DARK NIGHT OF THE SCRIPT
Usually at the end of the first day of my workshop, everyone is feeling a tad brain-dead. I warn the class about this first thing. I say you will be dizzy with having your ideas shot down — and over-whelmed by other pitches. It's something I only wish on a studio executive — because that's his job. But, I also say, if you go home, have a nice meal, and get a good sleep, by the time you wake up, the birds will be singing, the sun will be shining, and the Beat Sheet Fairy will have come in the middle of the night.
And he will bring a new appreciation of how story works using the BS2. Suddenly, all those notes and suggestions that seemed so horrible the day before, so not what you wanted to do with your story, make sense, or at least start to sink in. And by the second day of class, most of the participants have a handle on their beats.
What I especially love about this class is that no matter how confusing it gets for a writer working out a story, another writer listening to your plight has a solution. Indeed, if you really take the time and push yourself, surround yourself with a writers group who will tell you the truth, then your head might explode for a day or two but in the long run your story will work.
Sometimes it's easier to see your blind spot in another writer's story, and many will confess as much after class: I didn't get that I was doing the same thing as that other guy was doing… until I heard him pitch his story.
I've stressed from the beginning the importance of the Star-bucks pitch, and what you can learn from telling your story again and again, adding to it, massaging it, discovering what it really is. And the exercise of writers doing just that in our workshop proves how well this works. It's truly amazing to see a writer start with a simple “What if…”, and end up with a solid, well-told tale.
That's the moment it all pays off. When your little colt of an idea struggles to its feet and stands up strong.
There's no better feeling.
And all of it is the trial and error of communication.
You think you're telling us, but you're not. You're certain we should get it, but we don't. But if you want to win, if you want to hit a real home run, you have to listen, and respond. We are like every other audience you will face from here to your Oscar® speech. There are a thousand dark nights, for a thousand different details.
You might as well get used to it.
SPIDERING, HALF-STEPPING, AND BLURRY BEATS
Some of the most frequent trouble areas that come up in class revolve around fear. A writer pitches an idea, and even creates a decent logline, but then just can't manage to take his foot off the bottom of the pool and trust that he'll actually float.
He clings to the small dream, and even wonders if he can have that. He has his idea, but he fears expanding it.
Bigger! I'm always saying.
Let's hear the story! I'm always saying.
You aren't saying what you think you're saying! I'm always saying. Yet he refuses to believe he has a winner.
Fear leads to common problems when we extrapolate from an acorn of a logline to the young sapling of a story. Hesitancy, lack of confidence — and faith — appear in three unique ways: Spidering, Half-Stepping, and Blurry Beats.
What are these bad habits — which you might have too?
“Spidering” occurs when a writer doesn't stick to his premise. He has a story, but is afraid of it, or afraid he won't be able to find enough story in it, so he starts writing a soap opera. Suddenly, all kinds of secondary tales take hold of his imagination. The hero has a brother who has an interesting problem, let's get into that! Oh! And did I tell you about his Aunt Fern and her stuffed cabbage business? Well, let's talk about that, too. Suddenly the major highway of the story expands — sideways — with errant joyrides that lead us off the main vein of the plot.
In a recent class, one wonderful writer had a blimp in his story — that had nothing to do with the plot! But by movie's end by golly, there it was… the blimp! He even had a back story for the blimp's pilot and his crew! What he didn't have was any reason to include it. From then on in class “Blimp!” became our new battle cry whenever anyone else began to stray from his story.
And trust me, we all do it!
If any of this sounds familiar, what you are doing is Spidering. You are taking the plot from the hero and giving it to minor players — and blimps — we don't care about. You're spinning webs that lead us away from the main event.
Well, don't.
One story at a time, please. It's plenty.
“Half-Stepping” is a similar delaying tactic that comes in a new form. My favorite example is what happened to a writer in my Seattle class. This writer had a sweeping historic saga, the true story of an Irish indentured servant who is brought to pre-Revolutionary America and eventually helps rally others like himself against their masters. It's “ Spartacus in the Colonies.”
So would you be surprised to learn that the writer of this amazing tale had his hero arrive in America… and do nothing?! The “Fun and Games” of the writer's early beat sheet found his protagonist in his daily duties at his master's farm. There was a scene of him plowing, a scene with the chickens, a scene where he looks around in town.
So of course I stopped the writer mid-pitch to say:
Dude!
This is Spartacus! And you've confined him to the world's tiniest plotline: Spartacus goes to breakfast; Spartacus takes a shower; Spartacus does some sightseeing?
This is not a story; it's an itinerary!
What this writer had fallen victim to is what I have dubbed Half-Stepping. We think we're moving the story forward with each scene, and we kinda are, but the steps are so small and insignificant, it doesn't mean much. The listener wants to grab you by the lapels and shout:
What happens?!
The writer had a stallion, and was giving us a poodle.
After having this pointed out, the writer realized his half-stepping ways had to go. By the time he came back with his pitch, it was the epic it should have been. And great!
Like Spidering, Half-Stepping shows another kind of fear and another hesitation: lack of confidence.
“Blurry Beats” is the same… but different.
This phenomenon belies the same fear, the same lack of boldness, but it is revealed not in avoiding hitting the beats, but by making them so quiet, so soft, so indefinite, we can't see them.
I find this often at the turning points of a script: the Breaks into Act Two and Three and at Midpoint. Yes, the writer kinda touches on those. And kinda hits the beats.
But I want more.
You cannot slip into Act Two. The Detective cannot kinda take the case, or suddenly find himself on the trail of the killer; he has to decide and step into action.
Likewise at Midpoint, the stakes can't sorta be raised. Big! Bold! Definite! That's how we like our plot points. And if you aren't delivering these, you aren't telling me the story. But what's really wrong is: You don't have the confidence in yourself to tell us a story that we know will work great. If only you thou
ght so, too.
I'm your biggest fan — and I say: You can do it!
15 INTO 40
So you have your 15 beats worked out. Now what?
Well, that's easy.
In Save the Cat! I talk about how every movie has 40 Key Scenes and how I work out those scenes on “The Board.” This simple corkboard has been the single most useful tool of my career. For those going from logline, to 15 beats, to 40 scenes, it's on The Board where it all comes together, and where we see what you've really got. But could I show writers my shortcuts to turn “15 into 40” in the classroom — and in this book?
The answer is: Yes!
For those who want an overview of what a movie is, The Board (on pages 32 and 33) is gorgeous. Please note four rows representing Act One, the first half of Act Two, the second half of Act Two, and Act Three. And look how perfectly the 15 beats fit here. But now we have to make actual scenes, 40 of them, and that begins by taking it row by row and “breaking out” key beats to flesh out the 10 scene cards per row we need.
Let's start with the first row that constitutes Act One. Take a look. If you've nailed the Beat Sheet you already have six cards out of ten: Opening Image, Theme Stated, Set-Up, Catalyst, Debate, and Break into Two.
We only need four more.
To find these, I “break out” the Set-Up card. Set-Up is where we introduce the hero and his world. You probably have a list of things you want in here to “set up” who he is. But what is the best way to organize those scenes?
Think: at Home, at Work, and at Play. “At Home, our hero lives alone; his neighbor hates him because he never takes his trashcans to the curb. “At Play,” let's say our hero is into bowling, so we're going to have a scene at the lanes with his pals to set that up. While “at Work” our hero's the guy whose secretary bosses him around! Think H, W, and P and suddenly that one card breaks out into three actual scenes. And if you revisit at least two of these settings in your “Debate” card, suddenly your six cards become the 10 Key Scenes you need in that row. And while Home, Work, and Play don't apply to every story (see the Glossary for a great example of how H, W, and P appears in Gladiator), it's an easy way to set up “the world,” and the problem-plagued hero we need to introduce.